


fully formed, ready to run

by MajorAccent



Series: two sides of the same coin [1]
Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:20:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22998319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent
Summary: Their bedroom door is ajar, darker than the rest of the apartment because its window faces east. “Sander?” Robbe says, poking his head in.“I’m here,” Sander says from under all the layers of comforter and sheets, shock of platinum blond barely visible on the pillow in the low light.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Series: two sides of the same coin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801081
Comments: 80
Kudos: 276





	fully formed, ready to run

**Author's Note:**

> i did a poll on twitter as a joke like "would y'all read a fic if the summary was just: "sometimes a bitch just wants to be held, told that they matter, and have their hair played with. / and sometimes that bitch's name is sander driesen." so that's the True summary in my heart, but alas.
> 
> title comes from ["what i didn't know before," by ada limon](https://acespaceacepilot.tumblr.com/post/190976228701/douceurs-what-i-didnt-know-before-by-ada-limon): "what was between / us wasn't a fragile thing to be coddled, cooed / over. it came out fully formed, ready to run."

“I’m home,” Robbe calls out as he closes the front door, their apartment chilly and dark in the winter sun. He frowns and closes the door, toeing his shoes off and hanging his jacket up. “Sander?” He tries again, flipping the light on to their kitchen.

The couch is empty, one of Sander’s sketchbooks closed with a pencil and kneaded eraser on top on the end table, and a forgotten glass half full of water next to it. Robbe stops for a moment to pick up the throw that’s cold and forgotten on the cushion, refolding it and throwing it over the arm of the sofa.

Their bedroom door is ajar, darker than the rest of the apartment because its window faces east. “Sander?” Robbe says, poking his head in.

“I’m here,” Sander says from under all the layers of comforter and sheets, shock of platinum blond barely visible on the pillow in the low light.

“Hey,” Robbe murmurs, relief flooding his system now that he knows Sander’s safe and whole in his bed. He worms under the covers, gathering Sander’s lanky frame close to his chest, sliding his arm under his elbows. “Hey,” he greets again, mouth pressed against Sander’s pulse point.

Sander rearranged his limbs, tangling their legs together. “What time is it?” He asks, voice rough from sleep and disuse.

“After four,” Robbe answers, unwilling to pull back enough to look at his watch to give Sander a more accurate reading. “I just got back from my biology lab.”

Sander makes a noise. “I didn’t go in today,” he admits, guiltily. “I was too…” And he trails off, flaps his hand vaguely instead of trying to find a single word to encompass that empty, gnawing void inside him that sometimes becomes too much; the aching sense of loneliness that whispers nonsense and lies to his consciousness.

“Okay,” Robbe acknowledges and drags his nose against the hem on Sander’s neck. “Any of your professors going to give you hell about missing today?”

“No,” Sander yawns, jaw cracking with it. “They all know me, they know about it.”

Robbe hums, happy to hear that. He reaches out for the hand that isn’t tucked up under Sander’s pillow, lacing their fingers together. “You send off that email?”

Sander nods, happy that Robbe made him sit down and draft up something he could just plug names and dates into when he was like this, a skeleton form that let his professor know that he’d be out for the day as he spiraled.

“You did everything you needed to, then.” Robbe grins even if Sander can’t see it. He presses a kiss against his shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” he continues, kisses the top knob of his spine.

Sander untangles their limbs, shifting around until he can finally see Robbe face to face.

Robbe’s smile is still bright and wide, eyes crinkled with how big it is. He cradles Sander’s face in his hands, their knees bumping awkwardly as he tries to bring them closer together.

“Robbe,” Sander breathes, relieved that he’s finally home and with him. He clutches at the brunet’s hoodie, feeling that same sense of urgency as he tugs him forward.

“I missed you,” Robbe whispers, their faces so close that Sander feels the words more than hears them.

Sander shakes his head, not believing him because that pit in his stomach is too enormous today.

Robbe’s hand rakes through his hair, pulling at the strands once he gets to his crown. “It’s true,” he argues. “I think about you when I pass the bakery on my way to school. When I see someone doodling in the margins of their notes,” his thumb rubs back and forth, tracing the edge of Sander’s jaw. “When I stop paying attention to my professor, I think about what you might be doing.”

“That much?” Sander asks, hands still tight against Robbe’s sternum, heartbeat strong and steady against his palm.

“Yeah, that much,” Robbe answers with a smile. “It’s almost as if I’m in love with you, right?”

Sander huffs out a weak laugh and Robbe’s mouth tugs wider at the sound.

“I love you,” he says, pressing their foreheads together. “Not in spite of this,” he continues, knowing where Sander’s mind would try to turn it. “I love you, every part of you.”

There’s the sharp prickle behind his nose as his eyes water between one blink and the next. He sucks air through his teeth, trying to contain it all.

Robbe pulls him down, tucks Sander’s face against his neck with a soft, soothing noise. “I love you,” he repeats on a whisper, stroking his hair down to the nape, thumb circling against the skin.

“I love you, too,” Sander manages to get out with a thick swallow, sniffling against Robbe’s collarbone. His hands ache with how hard he’s holding onto Robbe’s clothes, clenched too tight that they’re white with pressure. “I’m sorry,” he says, consciously easing up and taking a deep breath.

Robbe’s hand comes up to touch Sander’s face, brushing the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone. “Sorry for what?” He asks, voice still soft and gentle. “For taking care of yourself?”

“For being like this,” Sander answers on a mumble, keeping his face hidden against Robbe’s hoodie. “For making you take care of me.”

Robbe scoffs. “You’re not making me do anything,” he assures him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He goes back to playing with Sander’s hair, waiting him out. “I’m exactly where I want to be right now.”

Sander breathes in the scent of Robbe’s aftershave and deodorant, counting his inhales and exhales, minding the ratio his therapist drilled into his head.

Inhale for four.

Hold for seven.

Exhale for eight.

“Are you sure?” He finally asks, moving to see Robbe’s face again.

Robbe presses a kiss to Sander’s forehead, tender and lingering. “Absolutely,” he affirms.

There’s another _ iloveyou _ sitting in Sander’s mouth, his chest alight with bursting warmth. But this is what he gets with Robbe: comfortable silence. The illogical part of his brain that’s self-sabotaging and irrational gets put on mute. He kisses the corner of Robbe’s mouth, finally feeling safe.

“Did you eat today?” Robbe asks, knowing that he’s going to have to start thinking about dinner sooner rather than later.

“Uhm,” Sander hums, trying to think about how he moved through the day. “I don’t remember,” he answers honestly. “Probably not?”

Robbe pulls back far enough to get the phone out of his front pocket. “Okay,” he acknowledges without a hint of judgment. “What should we get, then?”

“Let me see,” Sander says, nudging at Robbe to lay on his back, so they can both look at the screen. He swipes through the options on the app, icons of meals scrolling by as they offer up ratings and deals and time estimates.

“Here,” Robbe says, landing on their neighborhood Greek place. “Get you some french fries, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sander agrees easily, happy to put his trust into Robbe to make decisions for him. “That sounds good,” he murmurs, letting his eyes close, planning to snooze while they wait for the delivery.

“It says it’ll be here in a half hour,” Robbe tells Sander as he moves out from under him. “Plenty of time,” he declares, getting up from their bed.

“Plenty of time for what?” Sander asks, mouth downturned at the prospect of Robbe not being his pillow anymore.

“To move the TV,” Robbe answers, shouldering the door open all the way as he walks into the living room.

“Do you need help?” Sander asks, sitting up to follow.

“No, stay there,” Robbe insists before Sander can hear what he assumes is their cabinet being moved. He comes back into the bedroom, TV balanced on his forearms as he holds the plug in one hand.

Sander watches in amusement as Robbe pushes the pile of Sander’s rings and the random sock that didn’t have a partner that he left on top of the dresser that morning to the side, setting the television down.

“Why are you moving the TV in here?” He asks, settling back against the pillows.

Robbe makes a noise as he crouches down to feel around the wall for the socket he knows is there. “It’s a family tradition,” he says, finally plugging it in. “I wasn’t allowed to have a TV in my room, growing up,” he continues, patting himself down for the remote before he finds it in his back pocket. “But when I was sick and had to lay in bed all day, my mom would move the TV into my bedroom.”

He turns it on, seeing the logo pop up as it rebooted.

“Ah,” Sander replies as Robbe switches back and forth from YouTube to Netflix indecisively. “That’s where your binge-watching superhero cartoons began.”

“Exactly,” Robbe smiles over his shoulder at him. He picks YouTube, sighing when he sees it wants him to sign in to his account before he can pick a video.

Sander’s content to watch as Robbe clicks around on the TV, scrolling through everything until he finally finds what he’s looking for.

“Hey, there’s a new one,” he announces, turning to look at Sander as he hits play. The video starts by panning over a large painting, showing the whole piece before it cuts in close up shots of cracking and discoloration on the surface. “Good choice?” Robbe checks, remote still ready in his hand.

A man begins taking the painting off its stretcher, a calm voice overlaid to explain the whole process of restoring artwork.

“Yeah,” Sander nods, surprised and delighted that Robbe’s picked up on what channels he follows, that he knows what kind of videos Sander likes to put on in the background while he sketched or did homework.

Robbe passes him the remote, eyes wide and beaming as he leaves the bedroom again. “Wait there,” Robbe tells him as he goes to the kitchen, looking for the bed tray he tucked away when they moved in. “Aha,” he says, seeing it on top of the fridge.

He grabs napkins and fills two cups with water, balancing them on the tray, and bringing it all back into the bedroom.

“What’s all this?” Sander asks, trying to tease. “Special occasion?”

Robbe smiles, dimpling. He leans down, crowding into Sander’s space. “Yeah,” he answers and plants a knee on the bedding. “My boyfriend needs to be spoiled.”

“Your boyfriend?” Sander repeats, Robbe stealing all his attention. “Does he know how lucky he is to have you?”

“I think so,” Robbe whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “I don’t think he knows that I’m the lucky one, though.”

A shuddering breath gushes out of Sander at that, hands reaching and latching onto the fabric at Robbe’s sides. “Robbe,” he all but whines, rib cage wanting to burst with that white-hot vulnerable feeling. His face tilts up, seeking.

“He made me feel like I matter,” Robbe continues, eyes wrinkled with how hard he’s grinning. “He taught me what love feels like.” His hands find their way into Sander’s hair again, fingertips gentle against his scalp. “I admire him so much.”

Sander tugs him down, wanting to kiss him. “Robbe,” he says mindlessly, pleading.

Robbe meets him halfway, kissing Sander. His mouth parts, sighing into it as he scratches at Sander’s nape.

Which is when the door buzzer sounds, announcing the arrival of the courier.

Robbe pulls back, laughing at the frown and grumpy eyebrows on Sander’s face. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, kissing both of Sander’s cheeks and forehead before he stands up to go get their food.

The man’s voice in the video remains even and calm, hands protected by black gloves as he cleans the face of an angel in the foreground.

“They’re not getting a good tip,” Sander vows to the empty room, feeling like Robbe’s taking too long. “Bad timing and chatty,” he pretends to criticize, finally reaching for his own phone.

He’s been avoiding it, anxiety and shame swirling in his stomach at the thought of what messages and emails might be waiting for him upon his return. Except there’s only a handful of news alerts, notifications for comments and likes on Instagram, random badges from various games he has downloaded.

There are texts from Noor that range from asking him where he is, to offering up her notes for the lecture they normally share.

Texts from Robbe throughout his day: a picture of him and Jens during lunch, a block of words complaining about how his professor got a sub instead of just cancelling his class all together, and a couple of messages that are just hearts.

Little things throughout the day that proved Robbe was thinking of him.

“Did the world catch on fire while you were gone?” Robbe asks, suddenly back with an overstuffed paper bag under his arm. “Did absolutely everything fall apart because you skipped a day?”

“No,” Sander answers, checking his email just to be sure. “Everything’s fine.”

“See?” Robbe retorts, unpacking the containers. He opens one and puts it on the bed tray for Sander. “You can afford to take a day off once in a while.”

“I guess,” Sander allows with a heavy sigh, trying to play it off.

“I’m serious,” Robbe presses, refusing to let up. “I know you feel guilty about needing to take a step back from stuff,” he reiterates, knocking their shoulders together as he opens up his own take out box. “But if people care about you, they’ll understand.”

Sander shoves some fries into his mouth, so he doesn’t have to respond right away. His stomach rumbles, angry now that it realizes he’s gone a whole day without eating. “Thank you,” he lands on, shifting so he can press his side into Robbe’s, wanting the closeness.

Robbe makes a noise around his bite of food. “It’s no problem,” he says eventually, face buried in his styrofoam, not wanting their sheets to smell like smoked meat and tzatiki. “Now,” Robbe prompts, nodding at the screen. “Guess when that was painted and I’ll see if you’re right.”

Sander smiles weakly, familiar with the game. Whenever they visit museums, find paintings at a garage sale or antique store, or see pictures online, Robbe likes to test his art history knowledge. “C’mon,” he tries to persuade, not looking at him. “I’m sure that’s boring for you.”

“No, it’s not,” Robbe replies, tone booking no room for argument. “I like listening to you analyze and describe evidence,” he explains, putting his gyro down. “If it was boring for me, I wouldn’t ask, Sander.”

“Right,” Sander nods, trying to convince himself. “Okay, well,” he says, focusing in on the details of the painting as the man on the screen reframes the painting with new wood. “Well, it’s biblical…” He lists, looking over the kneeling monk. “He’s got a tonsure,” Sander points up to his own hair. “It was a haircut to show your faith.”

“Huh,” Robbe says, looking at the ring of hair depicted on the man in the painting. “How long did that go on for?”

“Until like fifty years ago,” Sander answers. “So I can at least narrow down that it was any time before 1970.”

Robbe barks out a laugh, elbowing him.

“It’s probably after 1700s because it’s not all soft colors and kids out in nature,” Sander continues, trying to hone in on a window. “I’d say… Early 19th century? Because it looks more like it came from neoclassical? All the religion of medieval times, but now they know something about anatomy and perspective.”

“Okay,” Robbe says, taking his phone out. “Final answer?”

“Final answer,” Sander affirms with a nod.

Robbe taps at his phone, finding the painting on google. “You were right,” he beams, showing Sander the screen. “1806.”

Sander grins, happy to be the winner this round. “I’ll be sure to let Dr. Bakker know,” he jokes, thinking back to the art history professor he had a couple semesters before. “She’ll be thrilled I’ve retained so much.”

The conversation lulls as they eat, the restoration winding down as the artist retouches voids in the painting, dabbing conservation paint over places that have chipped off over the centuries.

Robbe finishes first, putting his trash into the bag their food got delivered in. “You done?” He asks when Sander sits back, handful of fries still in his container.

“Yeah,” Sander nods, taking a pull from his glass of water. He knows it worries Robbe when he skips meals, that his therapist recommended a schedule to make sure he could regulate himself, that his brain misfires signals and it fucks with his hunger response.

“Hey,” Robbe interrupts, pausing from where he was cleaning up the containers. “I’d rather you only have a little bit than none of it, okay?” He assures Sander. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I know,” Sander replies, nodding. “ _ I _ know that, but the gremlin in my brain that presses all the buttons doesn’t know that. Y’know?”

Robbe laughs out a snort at that, clearing their bed of the tray and bag, setting them on the ground on his side of the room. “Here,” he beckons, reclining back and motioning for Sander to lie down with him.

Sander follows, tucking his head against Robbe’s shoulder, body turned toward him. “Hey, can I —” Sander hesitates, reaching a hand up to touch the neckline of Robbe’s hoodie.

“You want me to take it off?” Robbe leers, half-teasing and half-incredulous because of how Sander’s half lying on him.

“No,” Sander answers too quickly, hooking his leg over Robbe’s hips for good measure. “Just—” He reaches down the front of Robbe’s shirt.

Robbe lets out a yelp, feeling Sander’s cold hand bypass all his layers. “What are you doing?” His laugh morphing into a gasp when Sander grazes his nails along Robbe’s collarbone.

“You’re going to make fun of me,” Sander says, finding what he’s looking for. The delicate gold chain around Robbe’s neck pulls from where it’s bunched against his Adam’s apple, Sander dragging it out into the air.

Robbe grins, dimples exposed. “Make fun of you?” He challenges, kissing Sander’s temple. “I think I owe you some after all the pranks you’ve pulled on me.”

Sander taps his fingers against the pendant, familiar with the angel resting their face on their open palm. “I just—” He starts and stops, not knowing what he wants to say.

But that’s okay, Robbe always gives him time to parse things out in his mind. Waits patiently while Sander searches for how he wants to word something, never rushes him to get it out already.

“It grounds me,” Sander finally admits. He pinches the pendant, feeling the indention in the gold. “Sometimes, my therapist asks me to name things in the room,” he explains, knowing that it helps re-center and bring him back to the present. “But there’s another one she does, where she has me hold on to a piece of bismuth, and focus on it. Look at the surface, the lines in the gemstone.” He lets the pendant drop onto Robbe’s chest, touches the chain next. “Bismuth is this, like… It looks like a rainbow staircase. It’s reflective and shifts between colors.”

“Sounds cool,” Robbe whispers against his hairline, breath hot on his scalp.

“So I have that when I’m in her office,” Sander continues, eyes feeling heavy as he looks at how the chain catches the light in the room. “I have this at home.” His hand finds its way to Robbe’s chest again, feeling the pattern of his heartbeat.

“You gonna take a nap?” Robbe asks, voice still low, a comforting register.

Sander makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “Maybe,” he says eventually. “You gonna stay with me?” He asks back against the cotton of Robbe’s hoodie, breathing in the scent of him.

“Of course,” Robbe answers, fingers winding into Sander’s hair for the millionth time.

He sighs, body going lax as he settles in. Robbe’s hand moves to hold Sander’s shoulders, thumb swiping back and forth as YouTube loads up another restoration video to play next. The gentle voice starts again, blurring into the background as his breathing lengthens, starting to fall asleep.

Sander startles awake as Robbe lurches from under him. “Shitshitshitshit,” he’s seething through his teeth, shoving his hand into the pouch of his hoodie to pull out his phone. Sander groans, pressing his forehead harder into Robbe, trying to block out the cut off noise of Robbe’s ringtone.

Robbe finally rejects the call, sighing in relief once it all stops.

“Who was it?” Sander asks, voice muffled.

“Jens,” Robbe answers. “Think Jana’s throwing another party.”

Sander moves, propping his head up to look at Robbe. “Do you want to go?” He asks, prepared to roll over for him.

“No,” Robbe says, far too loud. “No,” he repeats, quieter. “I’m not going to leave you for some party.”

“I’d be fine if you went,” Sander tries again, wanting to give Robbe an out. “You’re allowed to spend time with your friends.”

Robbe reaches out with his free hand and flicks him between the eyes. “Don’t be silly,” Robbe scolds gently, immediately pressing a kiss in the same spot. “Thank you for letting me know, but no. I told you before, I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Sander relaxes, touching Robbe’s necklace again. “Even if I drool on your shirt?” He asks, stomach already flipping in excitement at how Robbe will react. That he’ll shove at his shoulders and whine about how gross he’s being.

“Especially then,” Robbe affirms, the complete sincerity throwing Sander’s expectations. “That’s how I know you’re in a deep sleep.”

“I don’t drool,” Sander argues, laying his head back down.

“Sure,” Robbe agrees, voice gentle again as he pets Sander’s head. “Go back to sleep, I’m okay.”

Sander hums, eyes already closed as his breathing gets slower and slower, sleep coming easy with the haze it already had over him.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Robbe murmurs, the last thing Sander hears as sleep claims him, between one breath and the next.

**Author's Note:**

> i am on [tumblr](http://acespaceacepilot.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SgtKarma).
> 
> this fic was Extremely wish fulfillment bc this is exactly what i want someone to do when my brain throws a molotov cocktail into my life. i broke my bone last week and have been watching A Lot of baumgartner restoration on youtube, which is why my boy julian got a shout out. also sander would Love art restoration videos, don't even front with me.
> 
> i leave you with this plea: support your local fanfic writers and leave comments. this is a tiny fandom. the way you can keep it going and active is making sure your fav writers have an audience. kudos are nice but they don't give me that same endorphin high of that "[AO3] Comment on..." email, ja feel?
> 
> a bitch likes validation. please leave a comment, even if it's only a heart emoji. if you leave me a comment i will come to your house, tuck you into bed, water your house plants, and feed your pet in gratitude. lemme know if you liked this. if i should write more, because I Have Some Ideas. i will bless you with success if you comment on this fic, dude.


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